


Opening Break

by pocky_slash



Series: Team Shithead [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, Gen, Graduate School, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8232202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: Hercules can tell the new kid is going to cause trouble the moment he sidles up to their table. Whether it's going to be good trouble or bad trouble is yet to be seen, but either way, Laurens is smitten.
(AKA Alex meets the gang from Herc's point of view.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a retelling of a scene from [i saw the whole story unwind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7927810)! You don't necessarily have to read that to get this (it's the first time these characters are meeting, so you're not missing much), but you might find it ~*~richer~*~ if you have that background. Basically, this is an AU where ghosts are a real, proven phenomenon and these assholes are in grad school to study them.
> 
> If it's NOT your first day here at Team Shithead HQ, thanks for sticking with me! I promise the rest of these tread new ground. This was originally a request from **firstbreaths** for a POV shift meme.
> 
> "Opening break" is the name of the first shot in a game of pool.

"We'll see you after the President's address," Laurens had said to Hercules that morning. "So like, six?"

"Five," Hercules had told him. "Maybe five-thirty if you're really dedicated."

"It is an hour long," Lafayette said.

"I know. But I'll see you at five."

It's five-fifteen and Herc smiles and waves as Laurens and Lafayette enter the Frog, eyes already scanning the room looking for him.

"Told you," is the first thing he says, because he did. He's been _magnanimously_ telling them all sorts of shit for weeks now; they should know enough to trust him.

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off," Laurens says cheerfully. "What a waste of a day."

"I told you that, too," Herc says. They join him at the high top he's commandeered. The Frog is quiet so far, but it's the first day of orientation and he knows it will be packed by six. He's got drinks waiting for them, Lafayette's current favorite local microbrew and a PBR for Laurens because there's something fucking fundamentally wrong with him. He blames the rich bro culture at Harvard, but knowing Laurens, he could just be choosing to drink this swill as a fuck you to his dad, who's shitty and distant in some vague, mysterious way.

"The tours were, perhaps, more informative to people who have not been here all summer," Lafayette says after tipping his bottle towards Herc in thanks. 

"Bro, I laid the whole thing out for you," Herc says. "Trust me, man, this is like, the sixth one of these things that I've been around for. You're not gonna learn anything you need to know in day one."

"Martha hoped it would be a chance for me to meet new people," Lafayette says. "I am both unwilling and unable to go against her wishes."

"You've met us!" Laurens says. "What more could you need? Martha loves me."

Herc is pretty sure that Martha _doesn't_ love him, though she's been polite the few times he's been by with Lafayette and Laurens. He can't say he entirely blames her. Lafayette and Laurens are fucking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed 4.0 geniuses looking to blaze their way through the parapsych world. Herc's in the sixth-ish year of a degree he'll probably finish eventually, one class at a time, when he's not too busy trading in all sorts of tech and materials quietly leaking their way out of the seedier parts of the underground parapsych enthusiasts. He's nearly a decade older than them and he's not unaware of what he looks like hulking around with Lafayette and his model-good looks and expensive clothes and Laurens, who's a scrappy asshole, but looks about fourteen and has monied manners that make Mrs. W swoon.

He smokes, too. He knows she hates that.

"Besides," Laurens continues, taking a swig of his catpiss beer, "there sure as hell wasn't anyone worth meeting."

"John, just because a man won't sleep with you doesn't mean he's not worth meeting," Lafayette says. Laurens rolls his eyes.

"Well, obviously," Laurens says. "I'm friends with you assholes. But it wasn't the part where he wouldn't sleep with me, it was the other shit."

"Other shit?" Herc raises his eyebrows. 

"This guy on my orientation tour," Laurens says. "I was telling Lafayette on the walk to the parking lot--so, okay, yes, I did initially talk to him because he was like...really disgustingly hot. But I'm chatting him up and he's giving off pretty strong straight-dude vibes and I was gonna move on, but then he mentioned he was parapsych, so I figured, you know, maybe he'd be a non-sexy friend like you guys."

" _Pardon_!" Lafayette says, pressing his hand to his chest in mock-offense. "I am _very_ sexy."

"True," Laurens allows. "But, you know, non-sexy in the not-sleeping-with-me way. So, I tell him I am too and we're chatting about what classes we're in and I tell him I'm taking 'Visual Analytics' and he says he's taking 'Skepticism in the Age of Believers.' So I laugh. Because it's a joke, right? Only it's not."

Herc shakes his head. "Fucking fence-sitters," he says.

"Right?" Laurens says. "Jesus. So I told him that was bullshit and he gave me some snide answer and I flipped him off. What an asshole."

He's probably lucky that Laurens didn't punch him. The kid's got a chip in his shoulder the size of a fucking tank and Herc's seen him pick fights for less.

"Quite," Lafayette says. "At least tomorrow we'll meet our two other lab mates and we can be assured that they won't be anything but true authenticants. George would never bother with a fence-sitter."

"I'll drink to that," Laurens says, tapping the neck of his bottle against Lafayette's. "How do we feel about wings? I just cashed my last Staples paycheck, so dinner's on me."

There's a split second where Herc's afraid Lafayette is going to protest and they'll spend the whole night in a awkward, stilted silence about money, _again_ , but Lafayette seems to have learned from last time, thank fuck, and waves Laurens towards the bar to place their order. Herc's no stranger to money problems in any form, really, and he knows there's something going on with Laurens, probably connected to the family he curses and the vague references he makes to being no longer welcome at home, but while Laurens will talk your ear off about parapsych, art history, politics, activism, baseball, television, things he would let Chris Hemsworth do to his body, ice cream flavors, and any other fucking topic you can conceive, he's cagey about his past. Herc respects that, and Laurens has been a solid friend so far; he sees no reason to push.

They talk about inconsequential things while they eat: plans for the weekend, some experimental salt and chalk compounds that are supposed to make wards twice as effective, a supposed haunting downtown that made the news, Jeter's impending retirement from the Yankees, how shitty parking's gonna get when everyone moves back to campus. Not long after Herc clears away the empty wings basket, he notices a kid cautiously approaching the table. Latino and scrawny with a dark ponytail and bags under his eyes so big they'd need to be checked before a flight, he's clearly eyeing the empty seats at their table.

"Hey," he says, once he's close enough, "are these seats taken?" 

Herc shakes his head and Lafayette gestures at them.

"They are yours," Laf says. Herc's not sure if the kid's gonna drag them away to another table or what. He doesn't look like he's sure yet, either. And then, a breath later, Laf adds, "I recognize you from orientation. I'm Lafayette. Just Lafayette."

If Laf thinks he's cool, they might as well invite him over. Herc's a little afraid he'll pass out if he doesn't sit down soon.

"His full name takes a fucking week to say out loud," Herc says. "Fucking French. I'm Hercules Mulligan. Herc. Mulligan. Whatever is fine. Sit down, man." He gestures towards the empty chairs and the kid smiles gratefully and approaches them.

"Awesome. Uh, Alexander Hamilton. Alex."

"John Laurens," says Laurens in a tone of voice that catches Herc's attention. Laurens is smiling at Hamilton with bedroom eyes and all his teeth. His entire posture has changed--his spine is straighter and his shoulders are squared and he's fidgeting with his hair. It's like someone flipped a switch. Herc's seen Laurens flirt before--a lot. It's usually casual bluster, something he does because it's easiest way for him to start a conversation. He's not particularly good at it, usually. Half the time it doesn't seem like he's even interested in the results, but this is...different.

"Nice to meet you," Hamilton says. He takes a seat. He's obviously trying to be subtle about checking Laurens out, but Herc can practically see the cartoon hearts forming in the air between them. 

"Oh, great," he says, looking back and forth between them. Because this is going to be trouble, Herc can already tell. He's not necessarily opposed to trouble, but Hamilton's got a look about him that Herc recognizes from spending a summer with Laurens and from looking in the mirror. There's a fight and an attitude and a desperation to Hamilton. This is either gonna end in tears or they're gonna end up fucking on the pool table.

Laurens is still smirking at the kid. Hamilton shrugs helplessly at Herc and then turns back to Laurens. Their eyes meet and the cartoon hearts reappear. 

"What?" asks Lafayette.

"I'll tell you when you're older," Herc mutters, shaking his head. More likely he'll figure it out for himself when he has to try and sleep through Laurens and Hamilton going at it on his sofa bed. "Do you need a drink, Hamilton?"

"My friend is just getting them now," Hamilton says. He looks to the bar, where a black kid wearing shoes that cost more than Herc's truck is picking up some beers. Hamilton waves at him and he waves back.

"Ooooh," Laurens says. The lovestruck tone is gone and the edge Herc associates with bloody knuckles is back. "That's the guy I was telling you about."

Herc thinks back over their conversations. "The hot guy?" he asks.

"The hot fence-sitter," Laurens says. "Easy on the eyes, though."

"Was he not receptive to your charms, dear Laurens?" Lafayette asks.

"Pretty sure he's straight," Laurens says. "I was looking pretty hard and he was definitely not looking back. I can tell when they're looking back." He glances at Hamilton as he says the last part and Hamilton meets his eyes and grins. Herc mentally starts naming their children.

" _Oh_ ," Lafayette says, glancing between them and then up at Herc. "I get it now." Herc rolls his eyes.

"What do you mean, 'fence-sitter?'" Hamilton asks.

"We're parapsych," Laurens says, gesturing to all three of them.

"Me too," Hamilton says. 

"Well, your buddy and I were in the same orientation group and we got to chatting about our schedules and he told me he was in 'Skepticism in the Age of Believers.' I laughed, because I figured it was a joke, but he said it wasn't. That he was interested in hearing their side because, quote, we don't really know how the chips are going to fall yet," Laurens says. That's a little more information than he gave before, enough to start to raise Herc's hackles. Because it's one thing to be undecided. It's another thing entirely to keep from committing to one side or the other in order to save your own ass.

Hamilton, meanwhile, looks like someone just killed his dog in front of him. Apparently he and Laurens' newest enemy aren't such great friends after all.

" _What_?" he asks. Laurens sags a little with relief.

"Oh, good," he says. "For a minute, I thought you agreed with him and I can only deal with so many hot fence-sitters in one day. You're his friend and you didn't know that?"

"We just met today!" Hamilton says. He's wild around the eyes, shellshocked. "I may have been, you know, overstating the whole 'friend' thing. He said we don't know how the chips are going to fall? Are you serious?" Laurens nods. "And he's--how do you study Parapsychology--how do you intend to get a fucking doctorate in Parapsychology and--does he plan to get certified, because--what the _fuck_?"

"I've seen this shit before," Herc says, before the kid can have a full meltdown. "You get a bunch of dipshits who think they can straddle the line between authenticism and skepticism so they can double publish and shit. He's probably not interested in getting certified, just in getting some fucking cushy teaching job somewhere."

"I just--how-- _how_?" Hamilton asks desperately. He's looking back and forth between the three of them for answers. Lafayette seems largely unconcerned. Laurens is all but drawing hearts around Hamilton's name.

"You're cute," he says. For all his flirting this summer, Herc's never seen the kid so smitten. An hour ago, he was ready to beat the crap out of this guy and now he seems much more concerned about picking out china patterns with Hamilton and deciding which way to hyphenate their last names.

"Your friend is coming this way," Lafayette says. "You may want to look slightly less...."

"Demented?" Herc suggests.

"I just...what. _What_. _How_?" Hamilton sputters.

Hamilton's skeptic pal walks right up to the table. Herc can't tell if he's oblivious to the way Hamilton is about to meltdown or if he just doesn't care.

"A drink on me, as promised," the guy says, placing a beer in front of Hamilton. He smiles politely at each of them in turn. Herc merely raises his eyebrows. Lafayette mumbles a vague greeting. Laurens smirks and the guy's smile flickers. "Ah, Laurens. Good to see you again."

"Mmhm," Laurens says.

"How the fuck are you devoting five years of your life to a PhD in Parapsychology if you don't even _believe_?" Hamilton blurts out. 

The guy blinks at him slowly. Herc can't help but laugh and he does a piss-poor job of hiding it behind a napkin. Hamilton's a fucking spitfire, that's for sure. He might actually be a good match for Laurens and his tendency to run into everything fist first. He thinks together they'll probably either take over the world or end it. He puts the odds at about fifty-fifty either way.

"I never said I don't believe," the guy says. He glares at Laurens, like it's Laurens' fault his new buddy has turned on him. He's not entirely wrong. "I said that we don't know how the movement is going to shake out and where it's going to go over the next few years. It's wise to look at every side of the issue and remain neutral."

"You're _studying_ Parapsychology!" Hamilton shouts. Some people from neighboring tables glance over at them. Hamilton is flailing wildly. His pal is staring at him expressionlessly. Laurens might sink to his knees and blow Hamilton right here. "You can’t remain neutral while _studying_ it because the other side thinks it _doesn't exist_!"

"Alexander, really," the guy says in a tone of voice that goes hand-in-hand with his shoes and his expensive coat and bag and the sports car Herc would bet is parked outside. It makes Herc bristle and he's not even the one it's directed at.

Hamilton takes it about as well. He goes off on a tear, and Herc tunes out the words to watch the show, the way that Hamilton gets wild and flushed, but sounds so damn certain, the way that his skeptic buddy gets more and more condescending as a defense mechanism, the way that Laurens begins to fall visibly in love with this ranting lunatic. Herc almost doesn't blame him. There's definitely something about the kid that's engaging and electric. Herc doesn't swing that way, but he can see how easily that passion could translate to lust.

Hamilton's friend eventually effectively ends the conversation by leaving to play trivia. It's obviously not the end for Hamilton--he's still flushed and twitching, though some of the fight drains out of him when Laurens curls a hand around the nape of his neck. 

"Drink," Laurens says, nudging Hamilton's beer bottle closer. "It will make you feel better. And when you're done with that one, the next round's on me." Hamilton turns to look at Laurens and they're close enough that their noses nearly touch. He gives Laurens a weak, defeated smile, then picks up his beer and downs it steadily.

"So, Hamilton," Herc says, taking the reins of the conversation back. "What lab are you in?"

"Oh!" he says, and the last of his rage disappears, mutating into pride. "George Washington's, actually."

"Us too!" Laurens says, clapping Hamilton on the shoulder. He's scooted his chair close enough that Herc is sure his knee is touching Hamilton's under the table top, a real feat for someone as short as Laurens on chairs as tall as these. "We're first years. Well, obviously since we were at the orientation today, I guess."

"All three of you?" Hamilton asks, looking between them again.

"Well, not me," Herc says. "I'm on, fuck, I don't know, my twelfth semester? Thirteenth? Who the fuck knows. I'm in no rush to graduate and Washington is in no rush to get rid of me as long as I keep supplying the department with...things they need." Lafayette and Laurens, bless their good breeding, had no idea what Herc meant by that until he spelled it out for them. Something like recognition dawns in Hamilton's eyes, though.

"I see," he says. "Equipment? Modifications?" The small smile he gives Herc on "modifications" confirms any lingering doubts and makes Hamilton about twenty times more interesting. He's got at least a general knowledge of what goes on in the underbelly of parapsych, it would seem. He's not sure where this kid came from, but, against his better judgement, he likes him already.

"The latest coming out of everywhere it's coming out of," Herc says vaguely. "Equipment, modifications, chemicals, repairs...anything else you might find yourself needing."

"Right," Hamilton says. "I'm familiar with the services. And Lafayette, you're from France?"

"Oui," Lafayette says. "Although I also did my undergraduate degree here, at Brown."

"And we're all in Washington's lab?" Hamilton says. "He takes like, three people in each class! How weird is it that we all met here, before classes even started?"

"Fate," Laurens says, tipping his bottle against Hamilton's. Hamilton beams at him and he beams back, their heads bent close, already sharing little secret smiles.

Herc's not sure he believes in fate, but there's definitely something at work here, there has been all summer. There's coincidence, and then there's meeting three people you immediately click with, independently of each other, within two months. Three people in the same incredibly selective program. Three people who, in a matter of weeks, are better friends than any of the assholes you've been working with for close to a decade.

Two of whom are definitely going to fuck before the night is out, and Herc wants to give that a wide berth. He picks up round two on Laurens' tab and puts a quarter on the pool table as he walks by it. Hamilton and Laurens are nearly pressed thigh to thigh as they babble at each other about some Twitter personality they both like. When Herc pulls out his favorite haunting story not long after, they've drifted so close that their shoulders are a hair's breadth from touching despite the fact that they're still on separate stools. Just as the tension is getting so thick that even Lafayette can't stop staring at them in disbelief, it's finally their turn with the pool table.

"We can play teams," Herc says, though he already knows what the answer is going to be. Laurens' eyes drift to the side quickly.

"No thanks," he says. "I think I'd rather watch."

"Yeah," Hamilton says. And he's watching something alright, but it's certainly not pool.

Herc loses himself in the game after the break. He discovered at the beginning of the summer that Lafayette's a fucking pool shark, so there's nothing on the line except for pride and it takes all his concentration to hold his own. When he does look up, Laurens and Hamilton have migrated over to the dart boards.

When he looks up a second time, right after Lafayette--amazingly!--scratches, they've moved on from playing darts to playing tonsil hockey, pressed against the back wall, already looking too indecent for public. Herc's not the one with someone's tongue in his mouth, but even he feels the relief of the broken sexual tension.

"Check out the kids," Herc says to Lafayette, pointing towards the back corner with his elbow.

"Well, that was, ah--" He squints the way he does when he can't quite find the English idiom he's looking for. "Inevitable," he settles on, though Herc can tell it's not necessarily the word he was looking for. Maybe that word doesn't exist in English. Maybe there's a French phrase that means _those shitheads were on a crash course towards each other's dicks from the moment they locked eyes._

"Laurens doesn't have a bed yet, right?" Herc asks. Lafayette sighs and shakes his head. "Wanna crash on my couch until they're done defiling your sofa bed?"

"We'll see," he says, still watching them. "I still need to get drunk to deal with this development, then sober up again. Perhaps they'll be done by then."

"Perhaps," Herc mimics. Lafayette is still watching them, smiling a little despite his imminent sexile.

"John looked happy though, no?" he asks.

Laurens, with that giant chip on his shoulder and his secret past and his temper and his restlessness....

"Yeah," Herc says. "Yeah, he did."

Lafayette's smile gets wider and fonder.

"Good," he says. He turns back to the table. "Now, hurry and make a mistake so I can finish beating you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Hamilton is definitely destined to be trouble, but, hey, life is boring without a little trouble now and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Up Next: What DOES John do with all those pictures he takes on his phone that never make it to Twitter?


End file.
